


Loch Lomond

by Transistance



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Gen, Reflection, Scotland, They're talking about Eric & Alan, Who are dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-07
Updated: 2015-02-07
Packaged: 2018-03-11 00:20:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3308642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Transistance/pseuds/Transistance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the anniversary of a certain tragedy, and Grell's annoyances are slightly more relevant than usual.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Loch Lomond

**Author's Note:**

> William's being a horrible English dude and I am sorry.

“Oh, _you'll_ take the high road, and _I’ll_ take the low road,  
And I'll be in Scotland, befoooore you,”

She was in his office again, singing. He didn't know exactly what she was singing, but it was tuneful and strong and incredibly annoying. Whether it was her presence or her noise or the song itself that was irritating him so remained unclear, but he wished that she would go away.

“For _me_ and my _true_ love will _never_ meet again...”

Grell paused and caught his eye, flashing a lazy grin before continuing.

“On the bonnie, bonnie banks of Loch Lo _oo_ —mond!”

She finished with a flourish, basking in the praise of an imaginary crowd for a moment before turning to William again. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“Did you enjoy listening to me sing?”

He wondered how rude it was acceptable to be in these situations, and whether she was baiting him. The smile suggested so, as did her tone. He adjusted his glasses with one hand.

“The song is new.”

“It’s Scottish.”

“Believe it or not, I had picked up on that.” He wrinkled his nose slightly. “Words like 'bonnie' don't appear in proper British music.”

“ _English_ music, you mean. I think you're forgetting again that our colleagues north of the border have just as much right to call themselves British as we do.”

“Hm.”

Scots were not quite as bad as, say, demons, but they were not far down the list. They tended to be rowdy, uncouth, verbally incompetent (how on earth the Scottish dialect had evolved alongside the English one he would never understand) and, most annoyingly, statistically better at their jobs than the London Dispatch at least. He tended to blame this on Grell, and avoided speaking to the Scottish representatives at large scale meetings.

“You really shouldn't be so bigoted towards them. We used to have a Scot in the office, or have you forgotten?”

“And look where he ended up.”

The man in question had been one Eric Slingby, the only transfer reaper that Personnel had ever signed across to London. He was from the Edinburgh unit, who could spare a few workers here and there because _they_ somehow always had enough staff, and was personable and diligent and rather liked by the majority of people despite his nature and nationality. He managed to go sixty years before falling in love, murdering almost a thousand mortals and then getting himself and his beloved killed.

Even with the Thorns, Alan Humphries had been estimated to have a century or more to live. Slingby's recklessness had cut that short.

“He meant well,” Grell persisted. “He did it for love. Let the man rest in peace.”

“Humphries died because of his actions. No matter his intentions, I cannot forgive that so easily.”

Grell muttered something that sounded suspiciously akin to “ _That's because he was a good English boy_ ,” and William felt his temper soar.

“This _isn't_ about where he came from, Sutcliff, and it _never has been_! Why do you have to turn everything I say into a weapon?”

“Because, dear, it's the fastest way to get a rise out of you.” She slid off his desk and positioned herself behind him, leaning on the back of his chair as though it was the most natural thing in the world to do. “And because it might make you _think_ before you say certain things in future.”

She began to hum the slightly more recognisable and infinitely more barbed tune of Auld lang syne, and he snapped, “Where did you pick these up, anyway? You've never even been to Scotland.”

“ _Oh_ , haven't I? Tsk. I mean, you're right, I haven't, but it's awfully rude of you to know that. One might think you've been st _alk_ ing me...”

The smirk in her voice was almost tangible, and he didn't bother to reply. She continued to speak regardless.

“Eric used to sing a lot. Usually when he was drunk, or just under his breath, but still quite a lot. I asked him about it one day and he said he didn't understand how we got by with so little music this side of the border. Apparently Scots have a better ear for music than most of us here.”

“Fascinating. Perhaps you were created in the wrong country as well as the wrong body.”

The weight against his chair lifted suddenly and he heard Grell clap her hands excitedly. “Yes, perhaps! I bet I'd look great in tartan.”

“Nobody looks great in tartan. And it would clash with your hair.”

“Nonsense, Scots are _ginger_. If their hair doesn't clash with their garb then neither would mine.”

“Slingby wasn't ginger.”

“Slingby bleached his hair.”

William turned to look at her sharply. “What is this, 'Bitch About Your Deceased Colleagues day'?”

“No.” Her tone had dropped suddenly to a level of disapproval that rivalled his own, and she glared at him as though he had said something utterly disgraceful. “No, Will, today is 'Remember Your Dead Friends and Mourn Their Loss' day. It's been two years exactly since your two best subordinates... Passed on, _sir_ , or had you forgotten that, too?”

He had. He absolutely had. Not for any feeling that their deaths had been trivial, or that he'd rather forget the two reapers – but he had made a point of not remembering the date. It had been the worst day he had ever experienced; the revelation that another of his subordinates had gone rogue, the first time any reaper he'd known had been killed. The resulting weighted blame from all directions on everyone in his department, for failing to do anything to prevent the situation, had been a paltry punishment to bear. His own guilt felt worse.

Nine hundred and ninety nine souls were retrieved that day, by twenty three dispatch agents. Nine hundred and ninety nine souls for one thousand and one dead.

“I'm sorry.” He said, turning away from her and picking up a pen again. “I am sorry.”

With a sigh she reclaimed her perch upon his desk, and started singing again – the same song, in a softer tone. He retreated into his paperwork and let her be.

“ _By the bonnie banks, and by the bonnie braes,_

_Where the sun shines bright upon Loch Looo---mond...”_

**Author's Note:**

> To quote Wikipedia on the lyrics of 'The bonnie banks o' Loch Lomond':
> 
> "By yon bonnie banks an' by yon bonnie braes  
> Whaur the sun shines bright on Loch Lomond  
> Whaur me an' my true love will ne'er meet again  
> On the bonnie, bonnie banks o' Loch Lomon'.
> 
> Chorus:  
> O ye'll tak' the high road, and Ah'll tak' the low road  
> And Ah'll be in Scotlan' afore ye  
> Fir me an' my true love will ne'er meet again  
> On the bonnie, bonnie banks o' Loch Lomon'.
> 
> 'Twas there that we perted in yon shady glen  
> On the steep, steep sides o' Ben Lomon'  
> Whaur in (soft) purple hue, the hielan hills we view  
> An' the moon comin' oot in the gloamin'.
> 
> Chorus
> 
> The wee birdies sing an' the wild flouers spring  
> An' in sunshine the waters are sleeping  
> But the broken heart it kens, nae second spring again  
> Tho' the waeful may cease frae their weeping.
> 
> Chorus"


End file.
